


Let's Go Get Love

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, M/M, Meet-Cute, not-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: Athos tightens his embrace and holds d’Artagnan, feels his heart beating steadily through their shirts and the warmth of his breath on Athos’ collar. We’re supposed to move, he says, and d’Artagnan huffs a laugh and sways a little. They get a momentum going, and then Athos is relaxing into the shuffle and sway of a not-dance.





	Let's Go Get Love

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a friend on tumblr.

Athos is on this retreat with his company. Treville has vanished somewhere muttering about a headache and Porthos is “resting his voice” in the bar after his long presentation. So Aramis is the one who’s bouncing around, looking for something to do, and he drags Athos to the complementary salsa lessons in the ballroom off the main lobby. 

Of course Aramis is having the time of his life – objectively he’s terrible, but he distracts his partners by joking and wiggling his hips outrageously when he trips over their legs – and Athos is the spare dancer so he’s stuck with the instructor. Of course. 

Athos is too self-conscious at first to take note of the instructor, save that he’s younger than Athos and has really pretty dark eyes, because he’s being forced to display each excruciatingly slow dance step to the class, which consists of 60% women and 35% bros who think taking this class is the business trip equivalent of taking woman’s studies to get chicks. 

Once the instructor speeds up the tempo, though, it becomes clear that Athos is good with putting steps together but… not so good with the rhythm. Athos is abandoned (thank god) each time the instructor needs to demonstrate to the class, and he’s left staring at the instructor’s swaying hips (oh no) and his tuft of a ponytail and he kind of thinks  _oh no he’s cute and I want to be near him without getting a come-on oh no._

But then the instructor comes back to Athos while everyone else is dancing, and Athos suddenly realizes that this means he gets a one-on-one lesson for each 30-second music clip,  _oh no_ , and then the instructor introduces himself properly and he makes cute jokes about Athos’ flailing footwork, and he’s really beautiful when he lets his professional mask down for a sec when he takes one of Athos’ dry comments seriously and then laughs at himself. 

It’s so much easier not to scowl at Aramis’ terrible idea of a social activity when he’s holding hands with d’Artagnan and he’s holding his gaze and silently counting off the beats in his head with the music. Y _es_ , he’s got it this time, and Athos finishes with a flourish and grins at d’Artagnan, who looks a little boggled and then squeezes his hands. 

That, apparently, is the sign that the class is over, because d’Artagnan turns to the class and claps his hands and says that’s it, and if you file out that door the bar is serving thirsty dancers (cue laughs), and also here’s his business card if you want to take classes. Aramis sidles up to Athos and gives him an out, asks him if he wants to go back to the room or fake a call, but Athos shrugs and waves him off as d’Artagnan comes back over, clearly focused on Athos. 

Aramis sidles off again and Athos takes the opportunity to ask d’Artagnan before the other man can, just blurts out that he’s also a dancer, despite evidence to the contrary, and he wouldn’t mind going to the bar if d’Artagnan joined him…? 

Something in d’Artagnan seems to loosen, the instructor’s posture and stiffness completely falling away. He shifts a little, as if unsure, a smile tugging at his lips; and then he says, I know a better place. 

They end up behind the hotel, in a little alcove mostly hidden by the sculpted treescape but accessible via the employee break room. D'Artagnan swipes a bottle of wine and a few glasses on their way out with a wink at the bartender, a pretty woman with red hair who’s chatting up Porthos in between serving the salsa-dancer wannabes. 

They perch on the rail of the little wooden gazebo, knees just touching, and d’Artagnan pours the wine and nearly tips over the bottle and Athos tells d’Artagnan about his company and his friends, and d’Artagnan talks about how he got into salsa dancing, and teases Athos (shouldn’t a fencer know how to move his body?) and uses his hands when he talks. Athos soaks up his presence, leans against the gazebo post and interrupts d’Artagnan to make some point of his own. 

He wants to see where this goes. He’s done the awkward speech enough times that if d’Artagnan tries to kiss him, Athos can rattle it off and explain that he doesn’t like kissing or sex (yes, I  _am_  gay; no, I’m not disgusted by you, I’m just not attracted to  _anyone_  and sex turns me off), and if worst comes to worse then Athos will have had this to remember. He’s collected enough memories that stop, self-censored, before his companion had suggested taking things to the bedroom or gone in for the kiss or practically sat themselves in Athos’ lap. 

But – but this is so good, talking to d’Artagnan and tracing with his eyes the shape of his ears (half-hidden under his hair which he’s let out of his ponytail now), trying to ascertain whether those are earring holes in the lobes. Telling him about growing up in the French countryside, recounting stories of his lordly ancestors, relishing and maybe embellishing upon the ones about the old courtiers who served the kings, just to see d’Artagnan’s impressed and dreamy expression. 

They get sillier and looser as the night goes on (fully dark now, the air humid and relaxed around them after two days of non-stop conferences, little lightning bugs sparking in the bushes like fairy lights). D'Artagnan will poke Athos’ knee to make a point, or tap his fingers against the back of Athos’ hand. D'Artagnan kicked him once, laughing and protesting a mock accusation, and now his leg swings between them, occasionally nudging Athos’ shin. 

Athos wants to touch him – wants to tuck his hair behind his ear, press his lips to his pulse point, catch his swinging leg and prop his foot on Athos’ lap – and he knows, from experience and movies and romance novels, how those things are supposed to be a precursor for tumbling into bed together, maybe ripping each other’s shirts off in this pavilion and shoving hands down each other’s pants, maybe spending the entire night together and slowly exploring each other’s bodies while smooth jazz plays from some unseen speaker. 

It’s safer to keep his hands to himself and let the evening play out quietly – no faulty assumptions; no oh-I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-mean stops and starts as each party tries to explain himself and then flees, embarrassed. 

D'Artagnan twists his fingers around the stem of his wine glass and then asks – maybe it’s kind of weird, but – he kind of wants to do something with Athos and it doesn’t have to be sexual but it’s kind of intimate, and – he’s explaining this all wrong. 

He stops. Athos is already forming the mental  _snip_  that will cut this part of the evening from the rest, so he can remember the good part and not this awkward proposition. 

Then D'Artagnan asks athos is he’s ever heard of  _asexuality_  and Athos stares at him for about a full minute while d’Artagnan explains, obviously increasingly nervous and defensive. Athos barely manages get his brain in gear to save the moment – he blurts out  _yes, me too_ , and it’s d’Artagnan’s turn to stare in befuddlement. like, really? Another ace in the wild, what are the odds??

Then d’Artagnan’s peppering him with questions, so excited and lively again: when did he know? when did he figure it out? oh my gosh, have you ever been in this situation and then – yes, exactly! (Then d’Artagnan figures out that Athos thought d’Artagnan was coming onto him, while d’Artagnan was trying to explain that he very specifically  _wasn’t_  coming onto him, and they both get a little giggly and then can’t stop being giggly.) 

Eventually d’Artagnan finishes what he wanted to say to Athos, which was that he wanted to dance with Athos. Not salsa dancing, but like your-friend’s-wedding-reception dancing, shuffling around and holding each other tight and resting your face on your partner’s shoulder. It’s too dark to see d’Artagnan’s expression, but Athos has become adept at hearing the expressions flicker through his voice – d’Artagnan is tentative but eager, wary of coming on too strong but – 

But he wants to hold Athos, wants to rest his head on his shoulder and breathe in his scent;  _wants to be near him without getting a come-on oh no A_ thos would be foolish in the extreme to reject this man who’s appeared before him like a sign, like a gangly angel sent to earth for Athos to drink wine with. 

So he hops (a bit unsteadily) off the gazebo rail and fumbles for d’Artagnan’s hand and leads him to an approximation of the center of the gazebo. D'Artagnan’s hands find his waist and Athos wraps his arms around d’Artagnan and puts his hands tentatively on d’Artagnan’s back, fingertips just resting on his shoulder-blades. It’s awkward for a second, not quite touching while touching; and then d’Artagnan expels a breath (the sound of  _in for a penny, in for a pound_ ) and presses up against Athos’ front, sliding his cheek against Athos’ jaw as he ducks his head and rests his chin on Athos’ shoulder. 

Athos tightens his embrace and holds d’Artagnan, feels his heart beating steadily through their shirts and the warmth of his breath on Athos’ collar. We’re supposed to move, he says, and d’Artagnan huffs a laugh and sways a little. They get a momentum going, and then Athos is relaxing into the shuffle and sway of a not-dance. 

Their toes brush once, twice, and then Athos steps a leg between d’Artagnan’s, a move that with any other two people might lead to grinding or another cut-to-black-with-smooth-jazz, but for them only presses their feet together so suddenly they’re supporting each other’s weight and they can soften and lean into each other properly. 

D'Artagnan’s hands hook on Athos’ belt straps and hang there, occasionally brushing against Athos’ ass – another move which would worry him if it were made by anyone else, but Athos trusts d’Artagnan and he accepts the touches as they were intended. He brushes his thumb across d’Artagnan’s jaw, feeling the stubble, and presses a kiss to d’Artagnan’s curved neck as he’d wanted to do since before the sun went down. 

They sway like that for a while, the wine and the warm summer night and the pleasure of having found each other bubbling up as contentment. Athos is so glad d’Artagnan asked for a dance. He’s so glad he found this one man out of billions of people on the earth, all the dance instructors and all the ace people. He’s so  _happy_.

Eventually Athos pulls away a little and offers – wryness audible in his voice – his hotel room, if d’Artagnan would like to come inside with him. He has lots of toys up there… chiefly among them his nintendo 3DS. D'Artagnan laughs but says he doesn’t play with another man’s handheld on the first date, to which Athos of course has to ask if there will be others. 

D'Artagnan gives him his card and, in the now too-bright low light of the lobby, scrawls his cell number on the back. Athos isn’t sure what to do as a goodbye – feels as though somehow his chance to touch existed only the dark of the pavilion – but d’Artagnan kisses his cheek and orders Athos to call him, and then leaves out the front doors to go home to his dance studio-slash-apartment. 

Athos searches the bar and finds Porthos gone, possibly with the bartender. He goes up to his room and finds Aramis lounging on his bed and watching Telenova. He glances up when Athos comes in and does a double-take. Athos has to look in the tiny bathroom mirror to realize he’s smiling. 

It’s irrepressible, even with Aramis’ teasing and taking pictures to snapchat to Porthos. Athos gives him the finger, still smiling, and sits down on his bed to put d’Artagnan’s number into his phone. 


End file.
